Melancholia
by S.N. Rainsworth
Summary: Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better. Well, that was what he thought. But then again, what had he thought ever make sense? One-shot. Sequel named 'Isolation'.


**_M e l a n c h o l i a. _**

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_A mental disorder characterized by severe depression, guilt, hopelessness, and withdrawal._

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Edward slid down the wall of the dark alleyway, feeling very helpless at the moment. His golden blonde hair was out of it's carelessly done braid, eyes sunken into his unusually pale face. He closed his eyes and sat on the cold stone floor, his face to the dark sky. He had left Alphonse for a while, saying that he needed a walk. A half an hour ago. Oh well, he usually took hour long walks, so he didn't care.

The rain hurt his ports, making them ache. Pain shot up his shoulder every second he moved, his leg the same. It was almost like he was being electrocuted, starting from his arms and legs and making it's way into his heart.

The rain brought relif to his face, splashing on his eyelids and resting spots on his lashes. They rolled down his face and into his neck, his hair, his clothes, everything dampening by the water.

The rain brought memories. It was storming on the day they decided to do The Unforgivable, winds so harsh that they blew trees to hit their windowpanes and caused the electricity to shortage out, making him use candles. When he thought back on it, the storm was a sure forewarning of danger, of the tragedy that was sure to happen on that day. But instead he ignored it, too engrossed with his fantasies of perfection to care.

He grinned bitterly and cracked open one golden eye, turning to the other side to see if anyone was coming. He heard no footsteps, and he figured it must have been his imagination. Over paranoia. Stupidity. Hallucinations. Yeah.

That day, it was all his fault. He looked to the sky, of the person controlling it and what was behind it, and he remembered that what these people would have called 'God', the one who would 'help them when times were troublesome', 'Ishvalla', whatever the hell you wanted to call him, was really a sadistic bastard that only took pleasure in people's suffering, bloodshed, and atypically sometimes masochistic ideas.

He laughed at the idea that someone up there actually _cared. _

If there was such thing as God, he wouldn't have given a second's hesitation to bash that thought out. God didn't exist. God didn't help; God didn't care, so why should he?

Hell was everything. There _was_ no heaven.

He idly wondered how much time had passed; how long was his little brother waiting for him?

Alphonse was his main reason to live. Him and Winry. Without those two, he felt as though his life didn't matter. He once figured out that he was a tiny spectrum part of a large cycle of the world that made up the universe, so large that no one human can explain it throughly and understand as well. If he passed on, sure people would miss him, but they would move on. The world was made like that. Time moved forward, and you had to move forward with it.

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_God would help you on your journeyed path. He picks you up when you fall and carries you forward. _

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_Really? Why don't you get up on your own two legs and walk?_

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He didn't want to move. He was so tired. He was tired of making Alphonse wait. He was tired of working for the military. He was tired of carrying the sins of his past everywhere he went. He was so damn tired.

His automail felt heavier, he noted. It was metal, his arm and leg, made of copper and iron and zinc and steel, percentages of so many elements that he cared not. It was all hazy, the rain made everything paint into drab blues and slate grays and dark colors. The painting of his life.

Contemporary to his golden hair and eyes, his mind was darkness, inky blackness that faded in and out with the glow of intelligence so intense that it was practically shrouded and blinded anyone who looked too closely.

Sometimes, Edward thought to himself, he seemed unreal. He looked through all the things he had done mentally, seeing the Truth, joining the Military at twelve, defeating homunculi, planning to stage coup de'tats, _killing,_ and he was only fifteen. It scared him, all he had done. It scared him badly. He noticed a puddle in front of him, just on the border of the street. He crawled to it, looking at his muddy reflection.

Cornsilk colored hair that fell around his face in long, messy, clumps, wide golden eyes sharp and bland, pale skin and high cheekbones that seemed sunken now. He had always heard how he looked like his father, who looked like the equivalence to a king or some type of regal nobility.

He swore that there wouldn't be a drop of noble blood in his body.

He was so _dirty; _Not just in the material kind, (which he was,) but also in spirit. His soul was stained permanently, and not like a stray pen mark. It was as if the whole inkwell had fallen on his clean white sheet, now drowned in black.

Black. The color of darkness. The color of God.

He was so tired.

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_Even in the darkest of suffering, a man can sleep. But for the man who inflicts the suffering, his mind cannot rest... ever. _

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_Then from this day forth, I'll never sleep again. _

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The stone pavement was cold on his cheek. He breathed in shallowly, savoring every breath of air that escaped into his lungs. He mused that he must've looked like such a child, being as small as he was and how fragile he looked. He ignored the jab he sent at himself, focusing on breathing.

_In. _

_Out._

Life was such a terrible thing.

His hand was useless now, as was his leg. They were both numb, sending a buzzing feeling into his body. He couldn't care, because he couldn't move right now. He was sick of everything, and he wasn't sure if he could go back. Seeing Alphonse was too painful right now, only a reminder of his failure. His brother would be horrified and terribly sad that he even thought of something like this, but he couldn't stop. The ground was awfully cold, and he was shivering. But he was glad it was so cold. It was so cold.

Edward groaned into the cement, pale lips moving afterwards in a silent chant.

_In. _

_Out. _

_In._

_Out. _

It was almost as if he was being controlled, he decided hazily. Controlled, because he couldn't get himself up. And if was saddening, because if he couldn't get himself up, then he couldn't see Alphonse. And Alphonse was waiting for him, waiting for him to finish their quest...

And then what?

Then he would probably leave Edward. As horrified at the fact his mind thought, Edward couldn't help but agree. He had screwed over his little brother's life. It was only common sense Alphonse would leave him. It would break the blonde, crush him, shatter him, but if it made Alphonse happy to never see his face again, then Alphonse would surely never see his face again. Edward would make sure of it. Even if it would kill him.

"Big brother? Brother?"

In his mind, he thought of the irony that just occurred. He thought of Al leaving; here he was walking toward him. Edward found no energy to reply to his brother's voice, only close his eyes and the world flashed in his eyes.

"Fullmetal?"

"Chief?"

"Edward, sir?"

Three familiar voices. Roy Mustang, his _superior._ The last man he wanted to see, not because of the ongoing animosity that usually sparked between them. But because just knowing that Flame Alchemist was his superior officer reminded him that it was all _real._ This wasn't a long dream and he wasn't going to wake up to his mother and little brother with milk and cookies, the former which he would deny. Then there was the older, joking voice of Havoc which held no mirth, only worry; and Hawkeye, who always managed to call him by his first name yet still give him proper respect, seeing as he was a rank higher than her First Lieutenant. His older, military sister.

He wanted them to go away.

He wanted to shout at them to leave him alone, to go and never look back at him, the sin he was. But his mouth wouldn't move except to breathe, his mind wouldn't work unless it was to the most vital body functions. One person must have found him, because he heard their voice of pure shock. That childish voice with an echoing metal sound that haunted him.

"Brother! Brother! Oh god, Ed!"

"Fullmetal? W-what's he doing? Fullmetal!"

"...Chief...?"

"Edward!"

_"Brother!" _

Go away...

_"Fullmetal!"_

He wanted them to leave...

_"Chief! Wake up! Chief!"_

Leave me alone...

_"Edward!" _

Go away...

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End file.
